


Too Late

by gotfanfiction



Series: One and then Two and then Three [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Biting, Blood, Come Kink, Double Penetration, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Like It Gets Sad FOR REAL, M/M, One-Sided Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Overstimulation, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Regret, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Character, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26297224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotfanfiction/pseuds/gotfanfiction
Summary: He had a miserable fucking year. Served him right, he guessed.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Series: One and then Two and then Three [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877473
Comments: 18
Kudos: 185





	Too Late

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Symbolic_Deviant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Symbolic_Deviant/gifts).



> And I am done! I'm super happy with how this came out, even if it is a lot sadder than I thought it would be when I started. One last time, I am a cis woman, I was asked to write this, and if it makes you uncomfortable feel free to leave at any time! I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable! Love you guys, thanks for sticking around <333

Geralt wasn't sure of much of anything, anymore. He was certain of the Path, of course, certain that he would walk it until he died, and if you had asked him only a few months ago he would have told you that the only people who would mourn him would be his fellow Witchers. He had tried to make sure of that. 

But he had come to realize, over the past year or so, lonely in a way he had become unaccustomed to, that perhaps pushing everyone away for fear of what the loss of them would do to him was foolish. Selfish, childish, even, too afraid of potential grief to properly open up. When he tried, with Yennefer, who would outlive them all, he was sure, and it blew up in his face as spectacular as anything, he’d taken it as a confirmation: it wasn’t worth it.

He felt like a coward, no, he  _ was _ a coward, dammit, and he felt the loss of his friend like an open wound, scabbing over just to reopen at the slightest thought of him, blood pouring freely, debilitating, wretched. 

Geralt could never explain what he felt, that first winter after he threw everything away, like a spoiled child unhappy with their dinner, coming home, surly from self-inflicted hurts, and smelled Jaskier all over Eskel, lingering like perfume, familiar and sweet and heartbreaking. Was he jealous? Was he happy that his brother had found someone to be happy with, at least for a time? Was he angry that it seemed like Jaskier hadn’t just waited for him, like he always did, forgiving without being prompted? 

He didn’t think he had ever deserved to be forgiven, really, for any of what he did. Could he have smiled through twenty years of half assed apologies, twenty years of dismissals, not nearly enough softness interspersed to make it bearable? 

He had wanted to beg Jaskier to come back, when he’d finally made his way down the mountain to find the bard gone, having taken only his lute and his purse with him. He twisted it into anger, instead, after a week had gone by and Jaskier was nowhere to be found, snarled to himself about unreliability, about idiots who left him to carry around their shit, but it didn't last, and he didn't feel better. 

He'd given away the outfits, the lotion Jaskier used for his face and hands, the small mirror and the dagger as well, tossed the scraps of half written poems or songs into his camp fire, and he regretted it fiercely as Jaskier's scent faded quickly, and he was left without even those small comforts. He wasn't sleeping well, or often, exhaustion pulling at him at all times. 

Eskel, who reeked of sex and his bard both, looked better than he had in years. Geralt didn't think about it. 

*--*

He had a miserable fucking year. Served him right, he guessed. 

*--*

Not that he had anyone to blame but himself for it, but still. He was still woozy from the bite, and Ciri was staring at him, wary after the relief of finding him, and he didn't blame her. Geralt wasn't personable at the best of times, and now he was recovering from a stint in a cell and a brush with death. 

He was as gentle as he could be, making sure she ate, keeping her warm, letting her crawl next to him in the night, shaking and weeping and terrified, and he held her close, humming low, and thought,  _ Jaskier would know what to do. _

Jaskier would have been able to put a smile on her thin face, would have had her giggling in minutes, would have known what words to say to comfort her as she twisted and cried out in her sleep. He was a poor substitute, a joke of a mimic, and it didn't matter that he put his feelings behind his actions, when he stroked her hair and whispered that he would keep her safe, Ciri deserved someone who could wipe away her tears, who could do more than cling to her and make promises they weren't sure they could keep.

_ Gods, _ he felt the absence of the other man so strongly, so powerfully, and it reminds him so much of countless nights spent watching the man in the flickering light of a fire, of the emotions swirling in his chest, threatening to drown him, of  _ wanting _ that, wanting to bury himself in Jaskier, wanting to wake every day to his smile and his laughter. 

It had terrified him. It had felt, at the time,  _ all  _ those times, that if he allowed himself to break, to fall, to take that first step into  _ something more, _ that it would be as good as agreeing to a lifetime of heartache, of grief, of  _ loss. _ He was such a fool. 

He missed him. He missed him so much.

*--*

Ciri asked so many questions,  _ where were they going, how long would it take, who was there, what did they look like,  _ Geralt! _ I'm tired can we rest, _ until Geralt snapped at her to  _ be quiet _ and her face went white, and guilt coiled in his chest.

There were a few young flowers peeking out from the bush they were picking their way through, and Geralt snapped a few off and held them out to his young charge, said, “I’m sorry,” and she took them and held them to her face and a small smile trembled it’s way to life. 

He looked at her tears, at her pale little face, at the bright color of the young blooms. 

“I won’t do it again.”

*--*

The nights as they travelled were awful, with Geralt needing rest but unable to get it, with Ciri and her nightmares and her screams that made the trees around them shiver in invisible winds. He wished again for someone to help him. He thought of Yen, who might have been as clueless as he but smarter about it, and again of Jaskier, who could have at least smiled while he blundered through.

Ciri rarely slept past the first few streaks of light in the morning, and on this particular sunrise she had insisted on Geralt laying back down and at least taking a nap. 

“I can wake you if I hear something,” she was very earnest, wasn’t she, “or I can just scream if it’s some big horrible monster. Geralt, you look awful, you really really do! I’ll keep  _ you _ safe for a change, how about that?”

And it was a bad idea, so very bad, but his eyes were already slipping shut, and he felt Ciri tugging at him until he was arranged to her liking, the pillow he’d stolen for her shoved under his head, and he was asleep.

When he awoke, hours laters, he felt so much better it was disorienting, a feeling not helped by the way Ciri had packed up all of the camp but for the bedroll he was using. He had dreamed of the past, of  _ Jaskier, _ because of course he did, because that’s all he dreamed of lately, when he dreamed at all, when he had something other than nightmares. 

It was easier, today, movement and breathing, his hearing sharper than it had been in weeks, now, everything brighter and louder, and he wasn’t back to full strength, not even close, but it didn’t feel quite so much like he was slogging his way through chest-deep mud. He settled Ciri atop their borrowed -stolen- horse, and she kept herself busy trying to weave her flowers into a bracelet.

She wasn’t very good at it, bruising the stems past saving and pouting about it until Geralt fetched her more. He didn’t understand how he could have come to love her so quickly, so fiercely, didn’t understand it but was grateful for it, glad for something good to have come from this mess.

“Oh, by the way,” Ciri carefully bent another stem, not quite snapping it, not bothering to look up. “I didn’t know that you knew Jaskier the bard, as well. Are you friends? Will he be there, at Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt tripped, he actually tripped, and while he recovered immediately, didn’t fall flat on his face, didn’t stumble for more than a step, he still felt as if the ground had shifted under his feet. He must have said something, in his sleep. 

“I know him,” he said, instead of asking any of the questions rapidly filling his mind. “And no, he won’t be there. Witchers don’t generally let outsiders into their keeps. It rarely ends well for us.”

Ciri, who was sweet and gentle, flowers around her fingers, who had nonetheless been raised by one of the most terrifying women in the world, nodded grimly, “Oh, I guess that makes sense. Will they let me in? I’m not a Witcher, either.”

“They will.” He reached over to pat her leg. “You’re not the first Child Surprise to enter Kaer Morhen.”

She hummed, holding up her ragged little creation to the light, the sap from broken stems staining her hands, turned and gave it to Geralt. “It’s for you. Will you wear it?”

*--*

By the time they reached his home the bracelet had withered away, and Geralt was recovering again, this time from having to fight off a small pack of bandits, Ciri having lost all the color she’d gained, shaking as he hauled them both to Kaer Morhen.

He needed rest, they both did, food and warmth and  _ safety, _ but he’d gotten them here, as he had promised, and if little Ciri was having to prop him up with her shoulder, well, that could stay their secret. 

Geralt wasn’t expecting a very warm welcome; perhaps a relieved one, at best, late two years in a row, this time with a child who was only slightly in better shape than he. 

But Vesemir took one look at them and dragged them both to Geralt’s room, poured potions and water in them both, mostly water for Ciri, made sure they had food, saying very little save for an introduction to Ciri, explanations for the potions he was making them drink, and he left them to sort themselves out. 

The look he gave Geralt on the way out, however, meant that he had held his tongue for the child’s sake, and that they would be discussing this, soon. He couldn’t work himself into dreading it, he was so fucking tired.

Ciri was happy enough to be sleeping on a bed, and drowsy from a larger meal and the heavily diluted potions, and he laid next to her so that she could snuggle into his side to her heart’s content. Whatever else, they were safe, and they could rest.

*--*

Jaskier was here.  **_Fuck._ **

*--*

Ciri had outright squealed when Jaskier walked into their room that morning, so desperately enthused to spot a familiar face that she didn’t notice Geralt going stiff all over, panic widening his eyes, nostrils flaring as he reflexively took in his scent and fuck. Just.  _ Fuck. _

The bard  _ reeked _ of his brothers  _ -both of them, gods, what had they been  _ up to?- for all that he still smelled of himself, the oils and perfumes he insisted were tools of his trade, the scent underneath which always had Geralt leaning his head towards him, even when he tried to ignore it.

He wished he could ignore him  _ now, _ wondered how he could just stroll in and smile at the bastard who hurt him, like it was easy, like it was nothing. Maybe it was, he thought, hands shaking, hidden in his bags. Maybe Jaskier had moved on so completely that Geralt meant nothing to him anymore.

Ciri was chattering away, telling Jaskier about everything that had happened after she finally met with Geralt, and he noted, distantly, that she said nothing of before, and that she avoided Jaskier’s gentle questions with a fumbling grace. 

He followed them out of the room, to the Great Hall where his brothers were sitting, heads bent together, but not speaking. They had been talking about him, then, and didn’t want him overhearing. Both of them stood, and Ciri squeaked a bit when they came close, clutching at Geralt, who didn’t know how to explain that no matter how fearsome they seemed, no one in this place would ever hurt her.

“Well, well, well,” Lambert leaned down to wink at Ciri, who just tightened her grip. “Who’s this little slip of nothing? Look at that hair, Eskel, she looks like she could be Geralt’s own spawn!”

Eskel stayed a little further back, as always, more considerate than their irrepressible brother. “She does, a bit. Would you tell us your name, child?”

Ciri’s pointy chin thrust up, and had he ever met anyone as brave as she? Perhaps he was biased. “I’m Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon. You should just call me Ciri. I’m Geralt of Rivia’s Child Surprise.”

They had actually practiced that, Geralt doing his best to reassure her that she wouldn’t need to use her, frankly, uninspired false name in this place, and not just because any Witcher worth his salt could pick up on a lie.

“Lion Cub of Cintra,” Jaskier continued, with a flourishing kind of bow, “Princess of Cintra, as well, noble and fair! And of course very beautiful, just like her mother.”

He had been right. Jaskier had Ciri smiling within moments. His brothers, who stank in the same way Jaskier did, like sex and each other, led him to the table, and they let him eat in peace while his ward and a person who used to be his friend got reacquainted.

Still though, there was the unspoken promise of a conversation, later, and he was able to work up some dread at the thought of it. It undoubtedly would be one of the worst talks of his life, but it was one he would have coming, and he would endure it, for Ciri’s sake if no one else’s.

*--*

Vesemir had been kinder to him than he thought he would be, considering how much trouble he’d managed to drag home with him, but Geralt still left that room at a slink, feeling guilty, chastised. The older Witcher hadn’t even needed to raise his voice. 

Geralt rubbed a hand down his face, headed towards his room. He wanted to catch up on as much rest as he could, really, he wasn’t going to go sulk in his room like a scolded child. He stopped dead in his tracks when an unmistakable sound reached him, echoing around in his head, jolting down his spine.

Oh, fuck. He hurried to his room in the hopes that the closed door would help, but the noises only got louder, and he found himself cursing his sharp ears, the second trials that enhanced his senses greater than any other Witcher. 

He shoved his head under a pillow, but he could still hear Lambert laughing, could still hear his and Jaskier’s skin sliding against each other, slapping together damply. Jaskier was moaning, but he had breath enough to call his brother  _ his good boy, _ Melitele’s  _ tits;  _ Geralt's toes were curling in his boots, cock stiffening up, and as Eskel’s deep voice rumbled encouragement he found his hand slipping into his breeches.

He picked at the laces, opening them enough to get a hand around his cock, pull it out, and shame burned hot in his chest when Jaskier gasped and Lambert groaned, and he could almost  _ see _ it, in his head, Jaskier riding his brother until they both came, Eskel’s hands holding the bard up.

Another guilty twist of his wrist, and he stifled his own noises as best he could, teeth sunk into his arm. He was almost sure his brothers had planned this, and it  _ hurt _ but he kept tugging on his prick, even as he heard Eskel shove his own into Jaskier’s cunt with an obscene  _ squelch _ , and he knew that his brother was particularly gifted, knew that there was no way it fit, all the way, knew there was come and slick dripping down his cock and Jaskier was making these little noises, like they were being punched out of him, but they were muffled. 

Geralt didn't know why, but thinking of his brother kissing the bard into silence sent a wash of cold through his guts, and when he came it was a choked off sob, tears in his eyes, despair flooding his chest. 

He'd very much lost his chance, hadn’t he?

*--*

Jaskier did his best not to wiggle around, the toy pushing at him in ways he was no longer familiar with. His boys had a plan, for sure, kissing his questions away, rubbing at him until he just about came and then leaving, the bastards, and he felt keyed up and not at all like having this talk right now, but he was an excellent actor, and no discomfort showed on his face as he walked down the hall with Ciri.

She held his arm, manners still intact despite her time with Geralt, although she did have a tendency to bare her teeth and growl. She could have just as easily gotten that trait from her grandmother, however, and Jaskier wasn't going to hold a bit of ferality against her. 

"Did I tell you yet, Princess?" Jaskier steered his small companion into the library with a vague hope for privacy for this conversation. "I had some news from my home, earlier this year."

Ciri, who had once sat and badgered him into fessing up his origins, on a genealogy kick, perked up. "Oh? What news from Lettenhove, my lord?" 

She tried for a wink and didn't quite manage, and Jaskier was charmed again by this remarkable girl, who he had watched grow up in Geralt's place. Someone had had to look out for her, even if there wasn't much he could do besides sing and slip her the occasional treat. 

"My parents both died. They were afflicted with the same illness, and both succumbed after only a few weeks," Jaskier felt that curious pang of not exactly grief, breathed in past it. "My sister, with my permission, inherited the title of our father." 

Ciri's hands covered her mouth, and her gasp, tears already falling. He sat her in a dusty chair, kneeling before her, and lied, just a little bit. It was for her own good, honest. 

"I miss them. I grieve for them, and talking about it helps, did you know that? I tried to hold in my feelings, to be strong, but they just sharpened themselves up on my ribs, and stabbed at me from the inside." Jaskier was expecting Ciri to burst into tears, a proper torrent, and she did, and he wrapped careful, gentle arms around her. 

He felt, more than saw, Geralt walk up, and a thing in his chest lurched to the side when his former friend knelt beside him, arms joining his, as his little ward sobbed for her family, and it was so very odd, hearing comforting words from him, but he supposed if anyone could crack open the surly shell Geralt kept himself wrapped up in, it would be Ciri.

She wept until she slumped over, worn out from her feelings, from letting them out, and Geralt swung her up in his arms, more gentle than Jaskier had ever seen. They walked together in silence, both unwilling to wake her; Jaskier stood outside Geralt's room as the Witcher tucked her in, soothed her mumblings, laid a hesitant kiss to her brow. 

Geralt walked up to him, shoulders and head bowed, and cracked out, "Jaskier. My friend. I'm  _ sorry." _

And Jaskier had  _ missed  _ him, dammit, missed his friend's awful face, missed him like a limb, but seeing him didn't sting the way he had feared it would, when Eskel and Lambert had suggested wintering with them, at Kaer Morhen. 

He wanted his friend back, wanted to poke fun at the way his nose would wrinkle up when they walked past an exceptionally fragrant person, wanted to laugh at his grumping and stomping about like an old man again, because he hadn't just lost the man he was in love with, he had lost a twenty year friendship, a friendship that had shaped who he was as a person, as an artist. 

And Geralt was here, now, seeped in guilt, in sorrow, contrite, and he had apologized, an actual apology, with his words and Jaskier told him his biggest secret, "I missed you, Geralt, and I loved you, I loved you so much, and I've moved on from wanting you, but love doesn't just mean romance or fucking, and I still  _ missed you, _ my friend." 

Geralt looked up, and his oldest friend had tears in his eyes, which didn't make Jaskier feel any better, and he was tearing up himself. "Is there any chance for me?" Geralt asked, voice soft, still wrecked around the edges, and it came too late, the knowledge that Geralt  _ did _ return the feelings he'd laid to rest. 

"We can be friends, Geralt," and Jaskier gentled his voice, hands reaching to hold his friend's. "We can do that, can't we?"

Fingers curled around his, and that was an awful attempt at a smile, but it  _ was _ a smile, and Jaskier felt hope bloom. "Yes. Yes we can."

*--*

Geralt was cracked open, despair and hope and love spilling out from his eyes, and Jaskier had left him with a promise and it was more than he deserved. He would do his best by his Child Surprise, by his friend, and he knew he would carry his feelings with him for the rest of his life, because when Geralt loved someone he loved them forever, even when it took him a few decades to sort himself out. 

Speaking of decades, he would have to talk with Jaskier soon about the bard's utter lack of aging. For now, he let himself rest, sleep dreamless and untroubled for once. 

*--*

Jaskier slipped into Eskel’s room, closing and locking the door behind him. "I know whatever scheme the two of you were cooking up was for later in the day, but I need you. I need you both, right now."

His Witchers, his lovers, the wonderful men, made quick work of all their clothes, and Jaskier didn’t even complain about wrinkles, this time, kissing Eskel soundly, letting them lead him to the bed, and he wasn't at all in the mood for gentle, nails sharp, biting at whatever or whoever he could reach, and , letting his desire for them drown out his sadness.

Lambert groaned when teeth caught his nipple, “Fuck, Jaskier, give us a moment, let us take care- ow!  _ Shit _ , fine, keep those fangs to yourself, Eskel, grab the oil.”

Eskel broke away to do just that, putting a bite of his own near Jaskier’s collarbone. “Behave, you two.”

Jaskier huffed, shoving Lambert around until he was beneath him, and despite any lingering sorrow he  _ had _ spent the better part of a day with a plug up his arse, was wet, and it took less than a heartbeat to have Lambert in him, thick and lovely as always.

“Ever tell you how well your cock fits in me, sweetheart?” Jaskier rolled his hips again and again, "And I'm so wet, right now, can't you feel it? You're just  _ perfect, _ I'm so full of you." 

Eskel's hands on him, then, holding him still. "Better not move around too much for this part, love, don't want to hurt you." 

Lambert squirmed, which set Jaskier to wriggling, and Eskel sighed at them both before carefully pulling the plug out, tossing it to the side, fingers probing, slipping in, and Jaskier couldn't believe it had taken them so long to do this, and it burned, a little, thrilling up his spine. 

One finger turned to two, and then three, and then a whopping four, right up his arsehole, Jaskier trembling but holding as still as he could, Lambert sitting up to distract him with his mouth, sucking and nibbling at his neck, his chest, too much teeth, so perfect. Eskel was breathing hard, maybe harder than he was, and he took his fingers away, but Jaskier didn't even notice with how quickly he replaced them with his cock.

The first few pushes hurt more than he thought they would, and a strangled noise ripped its way from his throat, but they talked about this, extensively, and Eskel put one of his huge hands on his belly and  _ kept going. _

He kept going until he was seated fully within Jaskier, panting, teeth buried in the neck before him, and everyone needed a moment to adjust, Jaskier gasping, tears back, and he had never been so full, gods bless Witchers.

Powerful fingers bit deeply into supple flesh and said,  _ more, _ and breath, fragrant with stew and ale mingled with his and he said  _ more. _ More would never be enough, but it was all he could ask for.

Jaskier would swear he could feel them in his chest, overwhelmed, stuffed so full he couldn’t  _ breathe, _ he couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but the cocks splitting him open. He came, louder than ever, and his legs were shaking, and his lovers were coming too, but this was something else they’d discussed.

Eskel and Lambert fucked him through his orgasm, through their own, and he was leaking all over them, come hot in him, and even the thought had him ready to go over again, right away, fingers frantic on his clit. 

“Fuck, please, I need it,  _ oh, _ I need it all, I love you,  _ I love you, _ fill me up. I want to be dripping for  _ days, _ I want everyone to be able to tell,” Eskel, his gentle man, bit down on his neck, a growl deep in his chest, arms around him like iron bars, and Lambert, who had started cursing at some point went dead silent, and he snapped his hips up right as Eskel pushed Jaskier down.

He couldn’t help it, he screeched, the new angle driving him head first into orgasm, legs spasming now, sobbing, Lambert sinking his teeth into the other side of Jaskier’s neck, everything exactly what he wanted, what he needed. 

Lambert came again, almost too much, his ears ringing, and Eskel followed right after, and that  _ was _ too much, he was too full, and he'd never been happier, trapped in between two Witchers, sex heavy and thick in the air, drowning.

*--*

Jaskier insisted on the plug straight away, but was otherwise happy to collapse, boneless, absolutely satisfied, on the bed, Eskel on his left and Lambert on his right. Both his men, right here with him, hopefully forever and ever, happily ever after, etc. 

There weren't words, exactly, for what he felt about his talk with Geralt. He was certainly pleased to have his friend back, but the revelation of reciprocation shocked him, and he lingered on it absently. He resolves to put the matter from his mind. 

He was sure, as well, that his Witchers had some kind of punishment in store for their brother, and now that the worst of the bad feelings were behind him he was content to let them be. It was bound to be funny, at the very least. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I've got another couple of things for this story floating around, mostly what I couldn't cram in the fics without them going way WAY over the intended word count ;] Come hang out with me on twitter! @gotfanfiction


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